In Defense of the Realm
by Susan Zell
Summary: Missing Scene from “Tapestry,” picking up immediately after Roxton is accused of High Treason in MI5 headquarters.


TITLE: In Defense of the Realm  
  
AUTHOR: Susan Zell  
  
DISCLAIMER: All characters from "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World" series are the property of Coote/Hayes and New Line Television. No profit has been made by this venture. I've only borrowed the explorers to tell a long Lost Tale. All will be returned to their rightful place at the conclusion.  
  
SUMMARY: Missing Scene from "Tapestry," picking up immediately after Roxton is accused of High Treason in MI5 headquarters.  
  
SPOILERS: Tapestry  
  
RATINGS: PG-13  
  
TYPE: Drama.  
  
WARNINGS: Prison Violence  
  
COMMENTS: The story takes up in the middle of the flashback in "Tapestry" and it is told in first person from Roxton's point of view, therefore giving it a different feel than most of my previous works, but I thought it would heighten his sense of isolation. Time will tell if it works.  
  
NOTES: This is strictly a 'Roxton' fic and takes place in the past before the plateau. Most of the normal Lost World Characters do not make an appearance, though a few do, in conversation if nothing else.  
  
HISTORICAL NOTE: The majority of events in this story parallel the actual case history of Sir Roger Casement, a British diplomat and Irish rebel who was executed for treason in 1916. It has been said that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle modeled Lord John Roxton's character after Casement. I thought it fitting then that Roxton's ordeal continues that tradition. Of course, Casement's history ended badly so I didn't take it to the extreme, but damn near close enough.  
  
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: My thanks to Alekto in assisting me in keeping the story as accurate as possible in all things British. My thanks also to Mary Whimsey for allowing me to borrow her characterization of Lady Roxton from "Up for Grabs" and "An Invitation to Tea", a refined and elegant woman. And to CAP for being the keeper of this story from its early infancy to its gradual maturity. Her gentle encouragement has made this story realize its possibilities.  
  
  
  
  
  
IN DEFENSE OF THE REALM  
  
A "Tapestry" Missing Scene  
  
By Susan Zell  
  
Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, fearing to attempt.  
  
-- William Shakespeare  
  
  
  
  
  
I would remember every detail of the night I was accused of high treason. It would be burned into my brain and its images would haunt me for the remainder of my days. The high-speed drive from Whitehall in a dark unmarked car through parts of London I didn't know was jarring but worse was yet to come. That I knew. We drove down a long straight road, an endless pollution-darkened street of Victorian Terraces, through some lights, then a right turn. A street sign on the corner read Jebb Avenue. The prison walls came into view and the gates opened to swallow us.  
  
I was stripped, measured, weighed and photographed. Reception smelled of carbolic soap and soiled clothes - my crisp uniform was exchanged for dull prison browns. The shirt collar was frayed, the trousers were stained and the grey woolen socks were damp from sweat that would never wash out.  
  
His Majesty's Prison Brixton was a large, crumbling, Victorian built behemoth where lost souls were living out their sentences whether it be awaiting trail, extradition, or doing life. Some had been inside for thirty years or more; others arrived only today.  
  
Passing through A wing with my escort, I saw men in ratty slippers and vests and baggy prison browns loitering at the top of the stairs. Others, towels slung over their shoulders, filled water jugs or emptied slop-pails in the recess. I'm not surprised we passed by A wing. It was too public. They'd want to keep me separate, sequestered from anyone. We came to punishment block, for me it would be home for a while. The officer in charge of the block shouted after me as I passed by with my escort, 'One on', and the block had a new inmate.  
  
The punishment block had twelve cells, but none were currently in use. For my benefit, I presumed. The cells contained no furniture of any kind. At 8pm the door would be unlocked and a bed and mattress placed inside. At 6am next morning, the bed would be taken out. That left a slop-pail, a water jug and a mug. There was nothing else. There were no books, no papers. The boredom would be crushing.  
  
My cell was indescribably featureless and stifling. I told my escort I couldn't believe how bland the cell was. The shove between my shoulders sent me stumbling forward. My chained hands barely had time to lift and catch my fall against the far wall. I straightened slowly and turned to face my guard.  
  
Even though I had agreed to this folly, and thought I knew what to expect in its aftermath, the look of sheer hatred in the guard's face caught me by surprise. News was spreading quickly despite assurances.  
  
He spat out a few words. "It fits a traitor!"  
  
Traitor. It wasn't something that rolled off the tongue easily. It was a harsh and vulgar word, one that I should get used to hearing often. My shoulders rotated back and I lifted my head a bit higher, which only enraged the guard more, but he wasn't willing to come in and do anything about it. He only slammed the barred door closed and locked it with a twisted grin before walking away.  
  
I had no doubt I would see him again before being transferred. The shame of being stripped naked and searched had allowed my accusers the first victory. My new wardrobe was thin and coarse and did little to keep out the chill in the cell. I knew it would be bad, but it still struck at chords within me that demanded I fight back. It took all of my strength to accept this humiliation with nothing but compliance and dignity.  
  
The coming interrogations would be long and draining. It would be better to rest while I could. It had been hours since I had been accused, processed and now dumped here in Brixton Prison. No food, no water as of yet. They were going to be hard lined about this. There was a knot in my gut that had yet to unclench since I had been accused. Despite the fact that I had known it would happen, it didn't make it easier to bear.  
  
But this was my decision. For King and Country. It was little enough and it protected the spy named Parsifal. What happened in the aftermath, what I would endure from here on out was a small matter compared to the fact that England's greatest spy was still safe. His safety was foremost, not mine. I was inconsequential.  
  
I sat slowly on the cold floor, allowing tense, locked muscles their first real feel of release. Leaning against the wall, I closed my eyes. I ran over the weak story I had prepared to try and defend myself. It left numerous holes that they could manipulate to make me into Parsifal.  
  
It felt wrong to take on the name of the most renowned spy in the War, but I would carry it with honor, forever if necessary, to my grave. And wherever Parsifal was, I hoped he continued to make the Germans pay for the death and destruction that had turned this war into a meatgrinder. With Parsifal still operating against the enemy, perhaps the War would end quicker. And my incarceration period would be short.  
  
I was well known in society circles. Something that worked for me and against me, more the latter than the former. Everyone knew Lord John Roxton. I had made the headlines far too often. It would be difficult for MI5 and the crown to quietly slip me aside and release me. It would only cast suspicion back to the real Parsifal. I had to see this through to the end, wherever it would take me.  
  
The only regret I had in all this was the pain it would bring to my mother. MI5 had made promises to keep it all out of the press. With any luck, no one, not even Mother, would know of it. The British monarchy was adept at keeping their dirty secrets from airing in public; with luck this would remain hidden as well. I closed my eyes in despair, not for my situation, but for the damage it might wage on the unsuspected. *May heaven have mercy on them all.*  
  
  
  
***  
  
Three days passed and finally Bunbury the guard, named after a bully I once knew in childhood, came for me, rattling the bars with a heavy truncheon. I jerked awake from the light doze I had been drifting into.  
  
"Time for you to do some singin', I 'ear." He wore a wicked grin, filled with malice.  
  
I rose obediently and came forward as he unlocked the cell. He swung it open wide and stepped back, almost as if he were afraid of me, even though I still wore the manacles that they hadn't bothered to remove. My wrists were now red and chaffed. Flanked on the other side of me was another burly guard. I decided to call him Kipper for no reason whatsoever, except that it was the first name that popped into my head.  
  
Bunbury snarled in my ear from behind me. "You have a yellow streak a mile wide." Kipper sniggered from my other side.  
  
"Really? In this suit, I didn't think it showed." I hated being called a coward. A traitor was one thing, but a coward I was not.  
  
My flippancy had a price.  
  
The walk to the interrogation room was long, made so by the constant effort to drag myself off the floor after being shoved or tripped. The guards were rougher and more daring, realizing that perhaps retribution would not be coming to those who brutalized an arrogant traitor to the crown. I had hopes that being someone of some note in society's circle might shield me, but that small glimmer of hope was fast fading. The fact that I was a major in His Majesty's Army did little to deter their aggression. But it didn't matter what happened to me. This was what I volunteered for. I would endure regardless.  
  
Pushing myself up on my feet once more, I had barely got myself upright when something heavy connected with the back of my knee. With a shout of pain, my leg collapsed beneath me, sprawling me back to the ground. I lay there gasping for a few seconds, dust swirling in the air by my strangled breaths, before they bent over and pulled me back to my feet. My leg wouldn't support my weight for a moment and they dragged me down the corridor. I tried to hold in my painful moans, not willing to show them they'd won.  
  
They made sure I could stand on my own before they shoved me through the interrogation room door. I stumbled into the small dingy room with the single bulb hanging on a dead man's knot in the ceiling, limping slightly but for the most part recovered from the incident. My jaw was set tight as I sat opposite the two men on the other side of the table. The chair was hard and uncomfortable. They wanted to keep me on edge.  
  
I didn't know either of the two individuals across from me. Therefore, I had no idea if either of them were in on my ruse. Most likely not. The small division in MI5 that was in on the deception was keeping a very tight control of who else could be brought in. It was to be kept in the strictest confidence by only a select few. The rest would believe the worst about me and treat me accordingly for authenticity's sake.  
  
It was several minutes while my interrogators refused to acknowledge me. I sat there, leg throbbing, breath slowing gradually, back aching, waiting for them to begin. It was supposed to unsettle me, scatter my thoughts and allow panic to set in. Unfortunately, I knew these tactics and was prepared for them. So in point of fact, the only thing that set in was boredom.  
  
I merely studied my two so called interrogators to pass the time. One was sandy haired and young, blue eyes. No more than thirty, if I were to make a guess. It was rare to see such youth in such a prestigious and critical position. He was either remarkably good or incredibly ruthless. Neither of which bode well for me.  
  
The other man was older. Mid fifties. Dark hair and dark eyes. Cold expression. It hadn't changed once. Not a shiver of anticipation or nervousness. Just cold calculation. They had picked two very competent individuals to bring me down.  
  
Wasted effort. It would be a fight with only one outcome. Still, I had to play the part. I only hoped my acting skills were up to the challenge. The best defense I found was to be merely ignorant. *Play the fool and your enemies will believe you simple minded. They'll think I just had high delusions of grandeur thanks to my position in society and yet didn't have the intelligence to pull it off. *  
  
Most people assumed that I acquired my position in HM Army as senior liaison to MI5 because of my father's standing, but that wasn't the case. My extensive travels around the world and my various contacts had made me a prime candidate for the confidentiality and global espionage perpetrated by Britain's new secret organization, created specifically for this War. But that the government and society believed otherwise would only help my case in this instance.  
  
It was my duty to maintain a direct liaison with the counter-sabotage section of MI5. In return, MI5 furnished me with all available information of enemy sabotage methods and equipment, and had plenty of advice as to measures for the prevention and detection of sabotage. His Majesty's Army staff would of course similarly notify MI5 of sabotage developments discovered in the field.  
  
When we suspected Lionel Huxley of being a traitor in the very ranks of MI5, Emery Rutledge, my contact in MI5, and I had set into motion a grand scheme to keep the spy Parsifal active and credible to the enemy. But when Huxley had begun to get suspicious drastic measures had to be taken and quickly with little forethought to specific details in order to protect Parsifal. I didn't doubt that MI5 hadn't gotten their act together yet, leaving me alone to face the system.  
  
Finally the younger man looked up at me. He had the audacity to smile in a paternal kind of way, as if to assure me that this would not be a bad experience. I knew better. I remained impassive.  
  
The questions began simply. "What is your name?"  
  
"Officially, I am Major Lord John Roxton."  
  
"There are people impersonating Major Lord John Roxton?" The man with the dark complexion regarded me curiously and with a bit of contempt.  
  
"I don't think there are many people who would care to impersonate me," I answered wryly.  
  
"Of course, you know your own position perfectly because you are not bound to answer any question put to you and any reply you make will be used in evidence against you."  
  
I nodded.  
  
"Major Lord John Roxton," queried the other man, "do you understand of what you are accused?"  
  
*Did the man think me a complete imbecile?* I cocked my head quizzically. "You mean I'm not here for tea and cucumber sandwiches?"  
  
The man's eyes hardened for a split second and I believed the man to be capable of extreme violence at that moment. But then his expression smoothed out once again. "No, I'm afraid you're not. In fact, very far from it. I gather being branded a traitor holds no remorse for you?"  
  
"Being called a traitor and being a traitor are two very different facts," I stated plainly to them. At times, the simple truth was the best defense.  
  
The elder man spoke. "I believe they are one and the same in this case." His voice was as even toned as his expression.  
  
"You have no proof," I remarked with as much bluster as I could manage, which was quite a bit. I was good at bluffing people. People feared me, or at least my reputation. After all, I had shot my own brother. What a heartless bastard I was.  
  
"I'm afraid we do, Major. And your alibi," the elder man shook his head, "flimsy at best."  
  
"We checked it out and it turned out to be quite full of holes. Plenty of gaps to allow you time to steal the iridium."  
  
Of course, there were gaps. I had made sure there was. "I didn't steal the iridium."  
  
"Then where were you on the night in question?"  
  
"I was in my office. Paperwork does rather tend to stack up during the war."  
  
A hand slammed down on the table. I flinched slightly, couldn't help it, but then I settled again.  
  
Boyish blue eyes narrowed to daggers. "Don't play us for fools, Major."  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it," I remarked casually.  
  
"Then tell us where the iridium is."  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You're trying my patience, Major!"  
  
"You're trying mine as well."  
  
"You're in no position to garner sympathy. You're a bloody traitor!"  
  
"You still haven't delivered any proof," I said. "And until you do you have no right to call me traitor."  
  
Mr. Dark slid a paper over to me. "A signed deposition, Major Lord Roxton. A witness claiming that you were not in your office at the time of the theft as you claim."  
  
My eyes didn't fall to the paper. "What? A man can't use the loo around here."  
  
"For two hours?" Again, blue eyes' voice turned cold.  
  
"That should teach me for eating in the officer's mess."  
  
The table was shoved hard into my chest for my insolence as Mr. Fair half rose. I wasn't expecting it. It caught me in the ribs, knocking the wind out of me and possibly something else as well. A sharp stab made my vision cave in for a moment.  
  
"Terribly sorry, Major," voiced Mr. Fair. The table was pulled back and rearranged, papers reshuffled nonchalantly though I could hardly tell. I was too busy struggling to stay conscious. "I let my temper get the best of me. My apologies."  
  
My arm braced my ribs which were on fire. It was difficult with the handcuffs. I couldn't catch my breath, but neither man seemed overly concerned for my well being. Mr. Dark was decidedly indifferent to the whole incident.  
  
"I can't stand flippancy," commented the younger interrogator. "A frailty of mine. Maybe we can begin again."  
  
"Must we?" I gasped through gritted teeth.  
  
"Yes, I'm afraid we must," assured Mr. Dark in a stern voice. "I would like to know where you were for two hours that night. I suggest you answer the question. Properly this time."  
  
The man was deadly serious. Too bad I couldn't oblige him. "I'm afraid I didn't document my every action that night."  
  
"You should have or your future is quite bleak."  
  
"It always has been." I couldn't keep the despair from my voice.  
  
"You refer to the accidental death of your brother. Or was it murder after all?"  
  
I tried to keep my anger suppressed but it wasn't easy. It was bubbling up inside of me, still fresh after all these years. *Bastards!* Such comments hurt worse from fellow countrymen. In Tibet, no one seemed to judge or even care what I had done in my life. But here, people were ugly, cruel, petty. I shouldn't be surprised these two men would drag that horror in front of me.  
  
"It was an accident and you know it. There were witnesses."  
  
"Yes." Mr. Dark consulted the paperwork. "Pierson Rice. His lurid accounts in the popular press paint a very intriguing picture of you, Major. It would seem from Mr. Rice's details that it was a deed of which to be most proud."  
  
"Rice is a bastard and a bore. A showman who takes far too great a pleasure in relating a tragedy."  
  
"Or perhaps he is man telling the truth of events that had always seemed far too suspicious."  
  
I wanted to wring his neck for his audacity. Under any other circumstances I would have called him outside and beat his face to a bloody pulp. But I understood what they were doing. They were attempting to rattle me, causing me to slip in my defense.  
  
It was working. The shame of it was they didn't need to do it. I was going to be found guilty regardless, whether by me leading them by the hand, or by their own supposition and manufacturer of evidence.  
  
"He's a glory seeker and had no right to relate events to the gossip mongers," I said quietly.  
  
"Or perhaps you are the glory seeker. With your brother's death and your father's suspiciously after, you were left with a title and an inheritance."  
  
"Neither of which I ever wanted," I shouted a tad too brusquely. I was tired of this game already. But neither Mr. Dark nor Mr. Fair was willing to concede. They smelled blood in the water, saw a chink in my armor; the game would continue.  
  
"So you claim, but yet you've used your newly acquired title to some merit." Mr. Fair shuffled some papers and read from them. "World travel, a sprawling estate, a prestigious rank in the military. For something that you don't seem to want, you've certainly used it to your advantage."  
  
"You're a glory seeker yourself, Major," insisted Mr. Dark in a snide way. "You're no better than Pierson Rice, crowing about the demise of your brother."  
  
That cut a swath through me that laid waste to reason. I started to stand. I don't know what I intended exactly. Mostly to smash my fists into Mr. Dark's sneering face. I never got that far. The guard jabbed his club into my ribs, the same ribs that had taken the brunt of the table. I never made a sound but sank to the floor as the darkness caved in. Distantly I realized that I was being dragged back to my cell, but the pain in my chest kept battering at me as I was moved so the darkness remained, keeping my consciousness occupied.  
  
By the time I regained my senses, I woke up on the cold stone floor of the cell, stiff, chilled, throat parched, still handcuffed. I had no idea how much time had passed or what the hour was. Slowly my life was becoming one of mindless existence, wracked with pain and thirst and hunger. I crawled onto the mattress that had been dumped there during my stupor, desperate to get off the icy floor and get some warmth back into my limbs. I was shivering. The blanket over the end was thin and worn but still a comfort.  
  
Each breath was agonizing. Something was broken inside or at least it felt that way. I groaned, as much out of despair as pain. Misery was now the name of the game. My jailers would see the weakness and act upon it whenever they could. My time here would be worse by tenfold. Why couldn't I keep my snide comments to myself? It would have saved me from this torture.  
  
But then again maybe not. MI5 was bound and determined to get a confession from me. If I gave it up too fast, they would be suspicious. It was better this way, more believable, letting them beat an admission of guilt from me. It would only make them think they had won some incredible battle. Let them preen like peacocks over their victory. In the end, they would be the fools, for Parsifal would be safe. England would be safe.  
  
After all, I deserved what they dished out; this was my penitence for William. He deserved nothing less from me. My pain, my shame, my bleak future was inconsequential compared to what he had endured at my hands.  
  
I curled up on my side, the one that didn't ache horribly and tried to drift away in my thoughts. There wasn't anything else to do. I didn't have to do a thing to get convicted. There was enough evidence planted to convict me. They just wanted a full-fledged confession from me to go along with the evidence, and eventually they would get that as well.  
  
A piercing pain in my ribs made my breath hitch sharply. I exhaled in small pants till it passed. *Think of something else, anything else besides how miserable you are.*  
  
That woman, the baroness, she was stunning. I hadn't been able to see her face, but what I did see, I liked. The damn newfangled intercom had been broken so I had been unable to hear her true voice, but if I had to guess it would have been melodious and rich, lilting in a way. She had displayed a cockiness, if I could be so bold as to attach such a crude label to a woman; I found that refreshing. She hadn't been flustered or anxious over Mr. Huxley and Mr. Thorne's weak attempts to rattle her. In fact, she had put them in their places with remarkable skill and I had found it exciting. Too bad she was a married woman. There was a fire in her that had sparked a flame in my own numb heart, foolish though it sounded, as if there was a connection between us that was begging to be noticed. But I didn't believe in such nonsense.  
  
Tenzin, my old friend in Tibet, believed otherwise and had often hinted that the other half of my damaged soul was searching for me; it had got separated from its true half and I would not be whole again till I found it.  
  
Sentimental tomfoolery!  
  
My soul had been ripped in two by murdering my brother, not by the loss of a kindred spirit. But Tenzin was a product of his culture and his romantic notions spawned by beliefs in reincarnation and spiritual guidance. I knew better.  
  
What I experienced here and now, a traitor to the crown, was what I had long been spiritually destined to do. By this act alone would I atone for my sin. It was the only way I could think to make my soul whole and beg forgiveness from my brother, God rest his soul, and mine.  
  
There was a part of me that didn't believe it though. Even this selfless act wouldn't be enough to atone for the act of murdering my own brother.  
  
"I'm sorry, William," I whispered.  
  
The shadow in the corner of my cell shifted and for a second I thought it was.  
  
I jerked awake, a loud banging echoing in my ears.  
  
Bunbury was at the bars with his truncheon. "Wake up, filth! They be wantin' to speak with you again."  
  
It couldn't be morning yet. Exhaustion dragged at me as I rose stiffly, groaning as the weight of the forgotten pain settled over me once more.  
  
***  
  
I sat carefully in the metal chair, cuffed hands held in my lap and waited. A pitcher of water and two glasses stood on the table; it made my arid throat convulse. I turned my gaze away. It was fruitless to ask for a drink. I knew the routine. It was there as a reward if I answered their questions properly. It was to help motivate me to be cooperative. If I was than they would be kind and offer me a glass of clean water. Sadly, I was almost ready to sell what was left of my soul for a drink. Almost.  
  
Again it was some time before they addressed me. I tried to occupy myself and ignore my irritation at their ploy. My fingers unconsciously searched for the signet ring on my little finger to toy with, but they had taken that from me when I first arrived. It was a loss that still ate at me. By God, they had better not lose it or heads would roll.  
  
Finally, Mr. Fair looked at me. He always began the interrogation, never Mr. Dark. Mr. Fair was the man who attacked first while the other man observed me for weaknesses. Only then would he pounce. Of the two, he was the more dangerous. I had a feeling I hadn't felt his full power yet. Mr. Fair was young and therefore easily set off with my simple snide remarks. That was his only danger. But Mr. Dark was waiting for something. He wanted my head on a platter but he wasn't willing to lose blood over it. He would take his time, stalk his prey, wait until I made an error and then the attack would come, not from the front where Mr. Fair was keeping my attention, but from the side, without warning, a sleek lion in the tall grass that obscured my vision, hunting with its mate, hunting me.  
  
"Major!" Mr. Fair's voice was irate and piercing.  
  
I jerked suddenly in the seat. I had drifted off, a testament to my state of exhaustion at the moment. I focused on the two men again.  
  
"Terribly sorry about the late hour, Major." The young man's tone had immediately dropped back to being polite and condescending.  
  
"Yes, I'm sure you are." I spoke low, forcing my attention back to the matter at hand.  
  
"We have a few more questions we'd like to ask you."  
  
"Would you like something to drink, Major?" inquired Mr. Dark. "Perhaps it would help keep your attention."  
  
I regarded the man. He held up the pitcher and poured me a glass. Instinctively I leaned forward, like a panting dog, ashamed at myself for my Pavlovian reaction. Who would have thought that the Russian scientist had been so accurate in his conclusions?  
  
Mr. Dark set the glass on the table but it was too far for me to reach. On purpose, I knew. Immediately, Mr. Fair began bombarding me with questions. Some were new, most were old. My eyes remained riveted to the glass of water, sparkling and glistening on the table. I would only get the water if I answered a question.  
  
God, I hated being manipulated.  
  
I closed my eyes wearily, wishing for a second that I was back in my bachelor quarters in Albany, cleaning my rifles, surrounded by my belongings.  
  
"Major!"  
  
A slap to the back of my head made my teeth rattle. Instantly my attention was back in the room.  
  
"Sorry," I mumbled.  
  
"Do you know this man?" Mr. Fair slid a photograph in front of me.  
  
I knew him. It was Philip James Drummond, my supposed cohort in crime. "Yes. He works in Special Branch." It would be foolish for me to try and deny it. We had passed each other in the hall on occasion, though as far as the iridium was concerned, Drummond had no idea that I was Parsifal. The iridium was delivered to him by a shadowed figure and he knew nothing more of my personal involvement. But we had conversed a time or two during my visits to Whitehall.  
  
"Who is it?" demanded Mr. Fair.  
  
For a second, I debated a glib answer and then I rejected the idea. "Philip Drummond."  
  
"Do you know his present whereabouts?"  
  
I could be truthful again. "No, I don't."  
  
"You were seen talking to him on the night in question. In particular, during the time you were 'in the loo', as you so glibly told us before."  
  
I drew in a slow breath to help me relax. "I asked him for a cigarillo. He was partial to them."  
  
"What time was this?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"And then what did you do?" Mr. Fair jotted down some notes.  
  
"I smoked a cigarillo."  
  
The man's blue dagger eyes drew up from his papers. He hated me with a passion that bordered on suicidal. I briefly wondered why. Was it because I was labeled a traitor or was there some personal issue that I was of yet unaware?  
  
Mr. Dark broke through the moment with a simple, "Surely you did something more than that. Did you speak to him?"  
  
"I suppose I did."  
  
"What do you suppose you said?"  
  
"Literally?"  
  
Mr. Dark nodded, nudging the water glass toward me.  
  
"I suppose I said something like 'do you have a cigarillo on you.'"  
  
Mr. Fair muttered a curse.  
  
Mr. Dark only frowned and withdrew the water glass. A sense of disappointment coursed through me even though I had known the outcome of my remark.  
  
"What did he reply?"  
  
"Literally?"  
  
Again, Mr. Dark nodded though this time a bit sharper than before.  
  
"He said, 'yes, I do.'"  
  
"Damn it, Major! You're wasting our time with this stupidity!" Mr. Fair's round face was beet red.  
  
"I'm sorry, but I'm only answering your questions. If you don't like them, perhaps you should be more direct with your queries."  
  
Mr. Fair leaned close to me so that I could smell the hint of beer on his breath. "You are going to the scaffold, I swear it."  
  
Mr. Dark coughed loudly and eased his partner back to his seat.  
  
"What my colleague means, is that unless you assist us with some important information, Major, you could quite possibly hang."  
  
The bastard said it as if it was as inconvenient as a stubbed toe.  
  
"You want direct questions, Major? I will give you some direct questions." Mr. Fair's time at the local pub had given his emotions free rein. "When and how did you smuggle the iridium? Is that direct enough for you?"  
  
I remained silent.  
  
"God damn you!" His hand rose to strike me but it never fell. There was a knock on the interrogation room door and then a sergeant entered. He was an older man with gray strands interlacing his head. He cast a quick eye at me and then addressed Mr. Dark. His counterpart dropped his raised arm and sat in his seat, eyeing me with malice.  
  
The sergeant bent to whisper in Mr. Dark's ear who raised an eyebrow, his gaze now rooted to me. He coughed and waved the sergeant aside.  
  
"Would you be so kind, Major, as to supply us with a key to the trunks located in your Albany flat?"  
  
I was stunned. Not because they had already gone through my bachelor quarters but because they were taking the time to ask for a bloody key! Most likely the operation had already taken place and they were just covering up the fact that they had broken into my trunks. I let out of weary sigh.  
  
"Break them open," I replied simply. "There's nothing inside but some old traveling clothes." There were perhaps a few other belongings that I doubted would be of any further use to me or to them.  
  
That surprised Mr. Dark, but he nodded to the sergeant who shrugged and departed.  
  
The water suddenly slid towards me. I had done well. Trying to act casually as if my throat wasn't burning and arid, I reached for glass, both hands cuffed together. *Don't rush, don't be desperate. They will love watching you salivate.*  
  
Mr. Fair lunged at me, intent on punishing me still, and I couldn't help it, my head raised warningly. I don't like playing the whipped dog all the time. It only incensed my interrogator more; he was still burning over my snide manner of before. He grabbed my bound hands and yanked me toward the table. My chest connected and the sharp agonizing pain erupted once more across my ribs.  
  
Through blurring eyes as I lay over the table, panting heavily, I saw Mr. Dark touch the younger man lightly on the arm. Mr. Fair looked over at him, startled at the interference. But Mr. Dark shook his head and reluctantly Mr. Fair sat back, still seething.  
  
My gaze drew away from my attacker and regarded my savior. I eased myself straight, breathing harshly against the pain. I knew that the attack was stopped for a reason and I was suddenly wary. What had I done to warrant a reward? The trunks? What did that matter? I wracked my brain for what could be in there to use against me other than some general useless clothing, but it was hard to think. I hadn't traveled privately since I was attached to MI5 and I couldn't recall the last time I had used the trunks. It didn't matter though. Whatever they thought they might have wouldn't affect the outcome of this charade I was conducting. It could only help.  
  
Mr. Dark pushed the glass closer and while I hesitated out of pride as well as caution, in the end it made no difference. I took the glass and drank greedily. Reward be damned. It wasn't near enough to quench my thirst and my throat clamored for more. I wiped my mouth with my fingers and licked them clean of the excess water that had dribbled down in my haste to gulp the liquid. I set the glass reluctantly back on the table and tore my gaze away from the pitcher of water that held twenty times what little I had received. I wouldn't give either of them the satisfaction of seeing me beg.  
  
To my dismay they shoved Drummund's photograph at me once again. "When was the last time you saw Leftenant Drummund?"  
  
"April the 15th. 9 pm."  
  
Notes were jotted down.  
  
"Where was this?" Mr. Dark asked.  
  
"Just outside headquarters."  
  
"Where exactly?"  
  
Exasperated, I told them, giving them all the minor details I remembered. I knew much more about Leftenant Philip James Drummond of course that Mr. Dark and Mr. Fair would never know. Like how he was at this very moment flying a Vickers Vimy to his doom. I did know that he would never reach his final destination. MI5 had seen to that. The plane was secretly modified and would only fly a certain distance before crashing. Drummund was most likely already dead, a smear on a mountain, the iridium gone where no one would find it until far too late. MI5 had every intention of retrieving the iridium soon after. Never could it be said that they were squanderers. What might have been originally intended for Germany would soon once again rest in the hands of England. I felt sorry for Drummond, but when it was discovered that the private was indeed working for the enemy, a plot had been hatched to make use of him to the fullest. He was the real traitor as well as Lionel Huxley.  
  
The interrogation stretched on long into the early morning. By the end, I could barely keep a thought in my head. I eventually stopped answering their questions because I couldn't be sure of what I was saying. Mr. Dark and Mr. Fair grew bored with me and sent me back to my cell. To my surprise and relief, Kipper finally removed the cuffs from my wrists, leaving them aching and bleeding but free. The mattress was still there, not that I noticed it at first as I slumped upon it. Only when they yanked it out from under me did I realize it was 6 am. My first awareness of the passing of time. I straightened up as best I could and sat on the floor in the corner.  
  
I couldn't believe that my co-conspirators had forgotten about me. But it had been days now. Hadn't it? Or maybe it just seemed like days and was instead weeks. My brain was having a horrible time keeping things straight. But surely one of the members in the consortium of deceit that we were weaving would come to check on me.  
  
Where was Emery? If any of them would be concerned, it would be my old chum Emery Rutledge. Had he come in the hours that I was unconscious and thought I was merely sleeping? No, never. Maybe he hadn't even come to the prison, would never come.  
  
*Steady, old boy.* I shoved the morose thoughts from my mind. They did no good but make me more miserable. This was what I had signed on for. What was it that I had insisted of William? It was something lofty and vain.  
  
"Be a man," offered the voice in the corner.  
  
I turned slowly. "Excuse me?" Had they given me a cellmate?  
  
"Wasn't that the phrase you were thinking of?"  
  
"Yes, that's it. I told William to be a man. Only fate stepped in and made him a corpse."  
  
The voice tsked. "You're far too hard on yourself."  
  
My pounding head with its scattered thoughts couldn't focus on the shape in the corner. "Who are you?"  
  
"Whomever you want me to be," responded the quiet voice, full of woe.  
  
"That's not an answer."  
  
"Of course it is. You should get some rest while you can. They'll be back for you soon, you know."  
  
"Yes, they will," I spoke listlessly. "Keep me reeling. Never let me sleep. Disorient me about whether it's day or night, today or tomorrow. They want me to answer their questions like a good little boy." Just thinking of it made my head ache. I rubbed stiff fingers into burning eyes. "God, I'm weary."  
  
"Sleep then," said the shadow. "I'll keep watch."  
  
And my body obeyed like a younger child, drifting quietly off to exhausted unconsciousness, all the questions I had slipping away like a wraith in the dead of the night.  
  
***  
  
The lines of cages rattled as Kipper approached, his club dragging down along the row. I jerked awake roughly, cracking my head sharply on the wall behind me. My heart pounded. They couldn't possibly want me for another interrogation session already. I was exhausted, but then my senses caught a whiff of something and my stomach clenched so hard it was painful.  
  
The guard shoved a bowl of food through the slot, just a few inches inside, still within easy reach of his club. I held myself back from falling upon it like an animal. Kipper stood there for a few minutes watching, waiting to see what I would do, ready to torment me. He wanted to watch me behave like a maddened dog. But I remained where I was and eyed him with a cold gaze. Finally, when he realized I wasn't going to put on a show for him, he cursed me and gave the bowl a hard smack with his foot, which sent it skittering over the floor. By some miracle, it did not tip over. Only after he was gone, his heels echoing down the corridor out of sight did I crawl slowly over to the bowl.  
  
It was bland and lukewarm and overly salty but I didn't care. No spoon or other utensil had been provided so I scooped out the near runny substance with my dirty fingers and shoveled it in my mouth.  
  
I noticed my cellmate was gone. Perhaps they had taken him elsewhere and I had been too exhausted in my state of unconsciousness to notice. I would have shared my meal with him.  
  
It wasn't until I had forced two or three mouthfuls down that I realized I had no water. The extra salt in the food was not to hide the taste but to make my thirst that much more acute.  
  
I could feel my throat tightening as the last bit of moisture was sucked dry by the salt. My brain tried to ward off the hunger, knowing more misery waited for me down that route, but I also knew that I was starving just as surely. Food had been very scarce. More so than water. I was weakening and the strength in my limbs was a trembling mess.  
  
I had to make a decision, a desperate one. In the end, I ate the food. They weren't going to kill me. They just wanted to make me miserable. Little did they know that I could do a far better job of that then they could ever hope to muster. Eventually they would give me water to quench my thirst. It would come slowly and infrequently, just enough to keep me alive and keep me answering their questions.  
  
Soon all this would be over. Once the top conspirators decided what was to be done with me, someone would come. I knew I wouldn't hang. The ruse wouldn't be taken that far. It couldn't.  
  
Though I was ashamed to admit there was some fear over it within me. Where it came from I could not say. My shame and my guilt decreed I deserved to hang, not for the crimes against my country, but for the crimes against my own flesh and blood. But somewhere inside of me there still rang an insuppressible instinct for survival by any means. It was what had kept me alive through the funerals, both William's and Father's. It was what kept me alive wandering through the frozen mountains of the Himalayas. It was what drove me to survive during each engagement I lead over enemy lines.  
  
No, there still beat within me an urge to live. Why, I couldn't say. Or maybe I could. At the funeral, it had been the voice and strength of my mother. She harbored no ill will toward me, not even when she had cast the dirt from her fingers into her beloved husband's grave, only a few months after she had to offer that same soil over the coffin of her firstborn son. Even after enduring all that, she had loved me, still loved me. Bless her small, stalwart little frame and warm staunch heart.  
  
And then in Tibet, it had been old Tenzin who found my weakened form in the lee side of a frozen mountain; his resolution and fortitude that kept my body alive and my soul intact. All through my time in the monastery, it had been Tenzin's gentle voice of reason and serenity that had gradually won me over to a state of grace and relative acceptance of my crimes. He gave me the strength to return to England when the War broke out.  
  
And then it had been Churchill's speeches that had moved me to enlist, against Mother's wishes, fearful to lose her only remaining family, but what choice did I have. I was a subject of the Crown. Yet soon after I joined the Army, the chaps at MI5 snatched me away, anxious to use my international contacts and high society seat to gather information. I became the Senior Army Liaison to MI5. I had thought it all wonderfully exhilarating. A spy for His Majesty's Secret Service. There could be no nobler a task for me. I embraced it with much enthusiasm.  
  
Only to lose it quickly afterward when I sent eager young men to their deaths on information I had gathered. It didn't matter that we had won those battles. The death tolls on those blood-soaked fields of countrymen and enemy were staggering and sobering. Undercover missions that I led soon lost their allure when I held young lads awkwardly in my arms, torn to pieces by enemy mortar, just as I had held William's torn body, watching the life leech out of them by sheer gravity, my hands never large enough to stop the flow of blood.  
  
Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes and I wiped them away angrily. It was done. Over. This was my final act. The last bit of honor left to my soul. I would be stripped of my honor in front of all of England, like I deserved for the bloody deeds I had wrought in my life. Death by hanging was too good for me.  
  
My breath shuttered with shame.  
  
And yet, still, my heart beat strong with survival. I wasn't going to give these men an inch in their interrogations. Again I questioned, why?  
  
Words came back to me, the words spoken by Professor George Challenger as he stood in front of the two way mirror in the interrogation room and addressed me though he couldn't see me. 'No one need die, not on this side and not on the other!'  
  
Was it true? I was so sick to death of the waste. I wanted this war to end. A part of me wanted to believe him desperately.  
  
Challenger was a man filled with conviction. His passion for his work and his ideals was immeasurable. He truly believed that he had held in his hands a solution to war. I had never seen such certainly of belief in a human being. It had washed over me with chills, even through the paltry malfunctioning intercom. Did he really have a means to end this God forsaken war? Had I just doomed our country to years of more war just to save the life of a single patriot?  
  
More guilt tried to shove its way into my heart. But I remained impassive against it. One life at a time, I told myself. Tenzin used to say that one should eat according to the limits of one's provisions; walk according to the length of one's step. For now, all I could do was this. But one day I would make it up to Professor George Edward Challenger. That I swore. He was a man of vision, he saw the world in an enlightened way. I felt myself inexplicably drawn to it, much like I felt drawn to the baroness for no earthly reason that I could discern.  
  
Such thoughts consumed me for I had nothing else to think about during my long lonely stay in prison. I thought it odd that in one night I had met two people who seemed to be stronger in life than anyone I had ever met. Perhaps it was only because I knew what was to come in only a few hours, betrayal and incarceration. Did that wear thin my veneer of fortitude and cause me to seek strength in the strangers I was deceiving? My sudden swell of devotion to them now seemed to only come from my guilt over manipulating them, regardless of the noble cause.  
  
I hoped someday I had the chance to make it up to both of them.  
  
***  
  
Towards the end of the third week of my interrogation, Mr. Fair entered the room carrying two large thin volumes that looked like notebooks or diaries. He laid the books on the table. "These were found in one of your trunks. They are very interesting."  
  
They were in fact two of several diaries written on account books, beginning in the year 1903, kept by myself and discovered in my trunks, which had been brought to Brixton from my lodgings.  
  
Mr. Dark looked at me. "Are these volumes yours?"  
  
"Yes," I answered. "They are my personal diaries."  
  
During my travels in Africa, South America and elsewhere, I had kept diaries. It was a practice that had all but vanished now. I had started them to entice and amuse William and show him that life was incredibly exciting outside the shores of England. But after his death, there seemed no point to it and rarely was there time to reflect and ponder as I had once done in my younger days. In truth, I had forgotten completely about them. I had thrown them somewhere to get them out of the way. My poor bachelor flat was inundated with objects and trophies brought back from the exotic places I had visited. Free space was a rare commodity. I should have burned the journals. Perhaps Emery had found them and planted them in the trunks. It would be just the thing he would do. Clever really.  
  
Mr. Dark looked through the pages of the two books on his desk, and he also examined the other three volumes which were brought to him. He professed to be horrified by what he read. I had not been gentle with what sights I had been witnessed to abroad. Many cultures held practices that most Englanders would find offensive and my descriptions of bloody battles I had engaged in to wage freedom were outlined with gross detail.  
  
Mr. Fair pointed out a few specific paragraphs and Mr. Dark's eyebrow rose considerably.  
  
"It states here that you paid large sums, equivalent to about 12,000 pounds to German sources."  
  
My brow furled as I tried to remember to what he was referring. Then I recalled the incident, and on the whole, even I had to admit that it looked bad. Score one for M15, both in find the evidence and planting it. Of course, there was a valid reason for what I had done. However, I doubt either of these men would be willing to see it for what it was. Still I made the attempt. "Those sources were Dutch. That money was used to barter for the release of British subjects after the Boer War."  
  
"And you just happened to know which people to contact to achieve that?"  
  
"What good is having a position in politics if you don't utilize it."  
  
"To aid the enemy?"  
  
I glared. "To aid my country."  
  
"Do you have proof that the exchange of funds resulted in the release of prisoners?"  
  
"I was after the release of subjects of the crown, no one specific. And I didn't exactly demand a receipt."  
  
"You should have," responded Mr. Dark. His head rose slowly from the books to consider me, dark eyes boring into me.  
  
The final nail in my coffin had been set.  
  
  
  
***  
  
It didn't long after that for official charges to be brought forth. I stood in the room, flanked by Kipper and Bunbury, facing a military tribunal of my peers. Mr. Dark and Mr. Fair were conspicuously absent from the proceedings.  
  
A man I did not recognize save for his rank stood up and read from a sheet of paper.  
  
It charged that I, 'Major Lord John Roxton, on December 1, 1914, and on various other days thereafter and between that day and April 21, 1916, being then, on the said several days, a British subject, and whilst on the aforesaid several days an open and public war was being prosecuted and carried on by the German Emperor and his subjects against our Lord the King and his subjects, he did traitorously contrive and intend to aid and assist the said enemies of our Lord the King, and did traitorously adhere to and aid and comfort the said enemies, in parts beyond the seas without this realm of England, specifically, in the Empire of Germany.'  
  
My eyes closed.  
  
My deed was done. I had won.  
  
Within the hour I was transferred to the Tower.  
  
A cold, unforgiving place. The sheer bloody history of the place sent an icy chill down my back, the stone of the walls rising above me as we drove through the gate. The iron spikes still buried deep into the walls and stretching to the skies. The severed heads of many traitors had adorned those spikes. For a morbid moment I envisioned my own head there. Hundred of years past and it would have been. I supposed I should be grateful that we weren't as barbaric anymore.  
  
Through the tight twisting corridors I was brought to my cell, a small room barely the size of my cell at Brixton. It had a bed at least this time. The stone was stained black. It was a damp, gloomy, and airless cell, with the window boarded up except for one pane, for the sentry to look through.  
  
I was given no change of clothes and kept in the strictest custody in the Tower, under severe conditions. Two soldiers had been put into my cell, with orders 'never to leave me and to look at me all the time'. The sentry outside looked through the single pane - three men with eyes never off me night and day, changed every hour, and electric light kept full on at night, so that sleep was impossible and thought was a page of hell.  
  
My bootlaces had been removed as a precaution against suicide. No natural light penetrated the cell in which the sole illumination was provided by one dim electric bulb. Here I would remain till they figured out what to do with me.  
  
Strange thoughts were mine as I sat on the bed, wrapping the thin blanket, full of fleas, around my chilled frame. No regrets, no fears. Well, yes, some regrets, but no fears. I thought of England, a land I should almost fatally never walk again. That I did not expect, could not in truth hope for. But, victory or defeat, it was all for England. And she could not suffer from what I had done. I would, I trust suffer - and even those near and dear to me - but my country could only gain from my 'treason'. Whatever came, that had to be so.  
  
There was a bit of movement in the corner of my cell. I sat motionless as the shadow moved again. My heart pounded inside my chest, wondering if there was again someone in my cell whom should not be there. I understood now that the exhaustion and my weakened condition had begun to generate in me hallucinations, manifestations of flesh from spirit.  
  
So far the hallucinations had been pleasant, caring almost. But how much longer would that last? My brother must hate me for what I had done. Eventually my mind's manifestation would turn ugly, it had to and it wouldn't be long before the one person that could truly hurt me, soul to soul, would torment me. So I stared at the corner waiting to see what would take shape.  
  
It shuddered and shimmered in my wavering vision. It hurt to concentrate and look at it. It grew bigger and then smaller as my eyes narrowed and opened. Finally, I lost the strength to care. Let the ghosts come, I thought. What did it matter now? At least I would have someone with whom to talk. I closed my aching eyes against the glare of the lightbulb.  
  
I'm not sure if I fell asleep or not, but a sudden noise jerked me from my oblivious state. It took time for my eyes to focus in the gloom. There was something at the end of my bed. My breathing deepened as I tried to make out the shape.  
  
I almost laughed. It was a rat. A big one. It was watching me with its small eyes and twitching whiskers. It was sitting nonchalantly on my legs. So I had a cellmate after all. Where there was one there would be more, hunting for scraps of food. I gave an insane laugh then. There would be none found here. I lacked the strength or desire to frighten him away. All I wanted was to drift away back into the depths of my oblivion.  
  
"Your taste in cellmates is atrocious," chided a voice from the darkened corner.  
  
The voice was female. I sat up a bit, lifting my tattered frame off the bed with a trembling arm. The rat scampered away at my movement. "Who's there?"  
  
This time the figure stepped into the dim light, red dress swirling about her, the shift of silk rustling in the still dank air.  
  
The Baroness.  
  
The dark lace from her button of a hat obscured her features completely. "Your saving grace," she answered me quietly. She regarded the small squalid room. "Is it worth it?" she asked me.  
  
"What do you mean?" She was an angel to my battered body. Was I already that far gone?  
  
"I gather you haven't looked at yourself lately?"  
  
My mouth formed a hard line as I scratched at my full unkempt beard. "It doesn't matter."  
  
A low humorless chuckle struggled forth. "What a silly fool you are," she observed.  
  
My eyes darted quickly to the small window in the door where the sentry regarded me with confused eyes. They wanted to know to whom I was speaking. It was only seconds before the door clanged open and two guards entered glancing about the room.  
  
Of course the room was empty except for my chilled carcass and the curious rat.  
  
"There ain't no one in 'ere," growled the smaller of the two men. "He's just off his rocker." The guards turned to exit.  
  
The baroness placed a hand on the shoulder of the last guard, a man of considerable size and breadth, just as he was about to leave. Her hand made him pause, but not because there was strength or substance in the touch, but something else. He hesitatingly approached me. "Are you all right, sir?" For such a large, fearsome man, he had a quiet sincere voice.  
  
Warily, I regarded him. He knew who I was, what I was, and yet he still had a level of concern in his tone. I shrank from him unconsciously and licked cracked lips.  
  
"I'll bring you something to drink, all right?"  
  
"We ain't supposed to bring 'im nothin'," snarled the other guard who had stayed in the doorway. "Orders."  
  
"Yeah, well, he's not looking too well. A drink of water might help set him right."  
  
"Some water . be grand," I mumbled at last, desperate not to lose this opportunity from a sympathetic soul, but it was harder to get the words out than I thought. My voice sounded gravelly and deep, far deeper than I had ever heard it.  
  
"I'll get you some." He shoved his disagreeable partner through the door and I listened to the bolts being pushed through once more. I thought it would frighten away the woman but to my great surprise and utter relief she was still there in the shadows.  
  
"It's about time they showed some compassion. Even I'm not that heartless," she remarked.  
  
Her voice was a mixture of American and British, so much so that it was hard for me tell from where she hailed. There was a mix of other things as well, but the thought of focusing that hard was more than I could bear at the moment. It was enough that she was here, talking to me. I knew she was a manifestation and probably nothing like the real woman in voice or appearance, but her presence was still a comfort.  
  
She turned to look at me, or at least turned in my direction. I longed to see her eyes. "Aren't you afraid of me?" she asked.  
  
"Why should I be?" Surprisingly, my voice sounded normal when I talked to her, still deep but at least I was forming real sentences. It seemed important that I do so.  
  
"Most people are afraid of me. They think me vile."  
  
"Perhaps they do not see the real you. Just your outer trappings." My eyes traveled down her trim figure encased in tight red silk. The color was an interesting choice for an interrogation. It spoke volumes about her.  
  
"They see only what I allow them to see. Buffoons and nincompoops such as Huxley and Thorne don't deserve anything more."  
  
"I'm grateful you came back. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for what I did."  
  
She waved a dismissive hand in the air. "To me least of all do you have to explain your actions." She had walked away a bit, back toward the door, when she suddenly turned her draped face toward me. I could swear I saw a trace of melancholy behind the dark, finely meshed lace. "What you are doing is considerably more brave than anything I could ever hope to accomplish."  
  
"Not true." It was a crazy statement. I knew nothing about this woman, but despite that fact, I felt compelled to reassure her she was wrong in her self-deprecation. There was a sense of pride and dignity in her bearing as if she carried a heavy load that she alone could see. It pulled at my sense of honor.  
  
She laughed at me, though it was a sad sound. "Keep you sentiments for someone more worthy and gullible. For yourself, if nothing else. You'll need them."  
  
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. She walked slowly back to the shadow in the corner. She paused right before it and then stopped, not turning around. "I won't forget what you have done."  
  
Then she faded away into the darkness, her dress turning to a blood red before melding into black shadows, and I was alone again.  
  
To my surprise the cell door clanked open and the guard returned with some water. To be truthful, I had thought his admission was only another way of torturing me, a promise that would turn out to be false.  
  
The guard actually placed a hand behind my head and eased me upright in a paternal gesture, the cup lifting to my cracked lips. I drank greedily until he tried to pull it away. I grabbed at it futilely, my hands reaching out for the escaping cup, but he soothed my fears.  
  
"You can have it all, just slowly now. Slowly."  
  
The glass returned and I closed my eyes in relief. It hadn't been a lie. Could it be that the baroness had found a kind soul for me in this hellish nightmare? If that was the case, then I owed her. Somehow she had seen the inherent compassion in this man and asked him to offer it to me. How could someone who claimed to have no valor be able to see so clearly that quality in another soul?  
  
Slowly the water disappeared and for the first time in days my thirst slackened. I could feel my stomach clenching at the water's intrusion, but I struggled to keep it down. To lose it now would do me no good. I had to let my body absorb it. Suddenly I was grateful for the guard's insistence that I drink gradually.  
  
"Your name?" I gasped out as he let my head ease back onto the mattress. I wanted to know his real name. I wanted to give him a real name, not one manufactured from my own psychosis.  
  
"Duffy," he told me. "You can call me Duffy, all right?"  
  
I nodded, satisfied. It was a good name, not threatening at all.  
  
"Real?"  
  
By his expression, he wasn't sure what I was asking him. Was the name real or was he real? I guess in the end I meant both.  
  
Finally, grinning, he shrugged. "Does it really matter?"  
  
I shook my head. "No." Enough ghosts had visited me that one more was welcome, particularly if he was a kindly sort.  
  
"Then Duffy it is. You need me, you just call out."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why what?"  
  
"I'm a traitor," I said simply, reminding him of a fact that I never forgot.  
  
"We all are in a way. It doesn't mean we have a right to be inhuman."  
  
My eyes closed. "Thank you."  
  
Duffy rose and left the cell, leaving me in a drowsy state of sleep, a normal sleep rather than the exhausting unconscious state of late. Able to ignore for the first time the glare of the light bulb overhead that never dimmed, I truly rested. It did me a world of good.  
  
Days stretched out ahead of me though I had no real concept of time. I waited for my trial that would start soon. Any moment they would come and pronounce their sentence and banish me or hang me or whatever it was that suited me best.  
  
But as the weeks lengthened, I realized that maybe they were just going to forget about me, sweep me aside and leave me trapped and alone in a dirty cell, where no one would notice me and soon all would forget about the traitor to England that hid a simple truth.  
  
No. They wouldn't do that. Someone would come. Someone had to. Someone had to remember that I was here, someone besides the rats. Duffy continually came in to speak to me and provide me with a bit of food and water. It wasn't enough to stave off the serious health issues, but it was enough to give me back a bit of strength.  
  
My beard was a scraggly mess, my eyes still red-rimmed and bloodshot, my arms, head and back swollen with insect bites from my verminous cell; but I no longer hesitated in my speech and I was able to remember places and names.  
  
It gave me a fighting chance and I took it. Duffy would occasionally sit and speak with me about life outside. His partner complained of it, stating that traitors deserved no privileges, but thankfully Duffy ignored him. Still I suspected any day now a more stringent guard would replace Duffy. But it didn't mean that I didn't enjoy his company in the meantime. I grew convinced that he was real and not a figment of my imagination, since I wasn't visited by ghosts lately. A part of me was sad since it meant that I wouldn't be seeing the Baroness or William again.  
  
They were a relief really. At least the people I cared about didn't resent or hate me even if I knew they should. My confused brain seemed content for now to allow me some freedom from my guilty conscience.  
  
Settling back against the damp wall, shifting a bit to ease the deep ache in my ribs that still persisted, I thought of the past, of happier days in Avebury, exploring the grounds with Mr. Robinson, my loyal steed, so old even then that it was a wonder he was able to keep up with my wild adventurous nature.  
  
I missed those days of my youth. William and I had spent a great deal of time exploring the grounds. We imagined ourselves to be grand adventurers, protectors of the innocent, and discoverers of great things. Even after William left Avebury for loftier studies, I continued to explore on my own. I discovered many things and fought many battles. I remembered once when I was at the standing stones I saw a young.  
  
There were additional voices beyond the door, more than just the usual guards. It perked my curiosity for the first time in weeks. One of the new voices sounded vaguely familiar, but I lacked the strength to sift through my memories or even to rise to the door.  
  
A pair of new eyes peered in through the window and then the lock was slid back. The light from outside spilled into the cell and my eyes narrowed from the bright glare. The water tearing in my eyes from the intrusion did not permit me to see my new guest. Perhaps it was Mr. Fair come to see his handiwork and garner last minute information to use in his prosecution during the trial that was doomed to start someday.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Who--?" I still couldn't remember that voice. Then suddenly the figure stepped into the gloom, the door closing behind.  
  
"It's Emery, John."  
  
"Emery?" I whispered, stunned. It couldn't be.  
  
I had been found.  
  
Or maybe it was just a spirit come to torment me finally as was fitting.  
  
The man came forward quickly. "Dear God in heaven," he whispered in shock as he regarded me. "What have they done to you?"  
  
"Exactly what befits a traitor to the crown of England."  
  
"Bloody nonsense!"  
  
"My apologies on my state of dress," I muttered, plucking at my filthy clothes. "My present things aren't very presentable."  
  
"Guards!"  
  
Duffy and his partner immediately appeared, entering the cell.  
  
Emery tore into them over my depleted condition. Duffy didn't say a word but kept his head straight up, hands clasped behind him. His partner hung his head and attempted to rationalize the barbaric treatment, but Emery would have none of it, his voice rose in fury.  
  
"What kind of animals are you to treat a man like this? It's barbaric! I will make sure you are--"  
  
I raised a hand and touched Emery's arm. "Enough," I told him.  
  
Emery glanced down at me, bewildered, his anger slipping.  
  
A small smile of appreciation came from Duffy's direction; his partner seemed merely stunned that I tried to stick up for them. Duffy was then most solicitous for my health, expressing the hope that I had slept better than the previous night in which I had been plagued with nightmares.  
  
I answered that I had slept 'like a child' and that I had had enough blankets, thanks to Duffy, which had been previously lacking.  
  
Emery sighed and then conceded that not all of God's creatures were malicious. "I'm glad that someone is looking after you all right,' he said. "To make up for my loss," he added in a bare whisper.  
  
"Duffy's been most kind," I said, "and moreover he is a most interesting man. He seems to know a good deal about the history of the Tower of London. He told me a lot about it. For example, yesterday he told me that no prisoner who had occupied my cell had ever succeeded in escaping the gallows."  
  
Duffy grinned at me. Our conversations had turned most morbid of late.  
  
Then I added, with a small smile in return: "And from what my interrogators told me, I don't think I am likely to prove an exception to the rule."  
  
"There you're wrong." Emery regarded the two guards. He looked at Duffy and nodded and then glared at the other guard. "You're dismissed." The man looked a bit stunned. "My man outside will brief you. Collect your things."  
  
It happened in mere seconds. Once the man had left, two other men came into the cell and I was moved again, this time to the infirmary. I was so weak they had to support much of my weight because my legs refused to hold me steady. Emery was afraid I'd topple straight over. The glaring light from out in the hall blinded me, my eyes no longer tolerant of such brilliance. Finally, Duffy gathered me into his arms and carried me like a child down the stone halls. For the first time in weeks, I felt safe.  
  
The doctor in the infirmary playacted like he was stunned at my condition while tending to me under the strict eye of Emery. Suddenly I had a better diet and was allowed books and newspapers. The world outside was mine again. It was glorious.  
  
My body was riddled with lice since I was allowed to suffer much from vermin and the unsanitary cells, which thankfully the doctor was able to relieve. I was shaved cleanly now; even my thin mustache was gone. My hair was cropped very short. Three of my ribs were cracked but none broken. Good luck that. My chest was wrapped tight with bandages and the pain seemed distant for the first time in a very long while, just a dull throb now, and only when I took a very deep breath. The date on the newspapers showed that it had been three months since I had been arrested.  
  
Three months. My mind reeled. What had taken the government so long?  
  
Emery had been around in the beginning after my release from the Tower cell, but I only dimly remembered it. The medications and the sheer exhaustion had kept me drowsy and incapable of asking questions then. But I had a great deal now. All I needed was the right man to come in the door and answer them. I demanded to see Emery, but for two days straight he didn't come round. His presence was still tangible however.  
  
I asked to be allowed to smoke, an unheard of privilege for prisoners, which usually required the sanction of the prison Commissioners. But this too I was permitted, a luxury beyond measure. I languished in the feel of the clean sheets and let the cool smoke swirl in my lungs before releasing it, watching it curl up to the stark white ceiling with its soft lighting.  
  
Emery's doing no doubt. I wondered just how long it would all last. Was the bugger up to something? Was I soon to be set free, or at least sent back to the front under an assumed name and rank? Or was this all merely a respite and another transfer to a more secluded prison was on the agenda? A part of me knew it shouldn't matter, but ashamedly it did.  
  
I couldn't be imprisoned again. It had stripped me of far more than my honor. It had nearly taken away my sanity. I was not meant to be caged like an animal. Even that short amount of time had left me almost less than a man. How would I ever last out the war that could linger on for years yet? I wasn't going to go back. I *wasn't!*  
  
A shuttered breath erupted out of me and I struggled not to let it happen again. This was my penance. How many times did I have to repeat that to myself before I accepted it? It would put William's ghost to rest and mine eventually. I drew heavily on the cigarillo, letting the act calm me. Whatever His Majesty and MI5 planned, I would abide by it. I just wished they'd bloody well hurry up and let me in on it. I was damn tired of all these secrets.  
  
As if by wishing it became truth, for Emery Rutledge walked into the infirmary.  
  
"John! Deuce take it, old boy, you look remarkably better."  
  
I didn't say anything. My anger was still on the surface and I wanted it to fade. Emery wasn't at fault here; he was a pawn in all this just like myself, at the whims of the riptides and forces that rule a monarchy and hide their secrets. He could no more tell the King to free me than could my old pony make such a demand.  
  
Emery dragged a steel chair over to my bedside, its ragged screech painful to my ears; his green eyes were still creased with shame.  
  
"I'm feeling a bit more human now," I assured him finally.  
  
The man's sandy head shook back and forth. "I can't tell you how sorry I am for all of this, John."  
  
"What happened? Why did it take so long?"  
  
The metal chair scraped again on the floor as Emery shifted in it uncomfortably. I tried not to flinch. "Hell, Roxton, my dear fellow, you know how persnickety those blighters at command can be. They continued to think that the enemy would find out it was all just a ruse. They wanted you to stay in prison, then leak it to the press and let the cards fall where they may. Those bloody fools truly don't care whose lives they destroy in the name of security. It took me ages to convince them that you weren't a threat if we could just slip you to the side."  
  
My heart quickened. "You mean I won't have to stay in prison?"  
  
"No. You have to disappear though at least until the end of the war."  
  
"I've done it before."  
  
Emery regarded me sadly. "Sorry, old boy."  
  
"Don't be. I'd rather have that than spend another day in this hellhole."  
  
"Where will you go?"  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
"Yes. To me if not MI5."  
  
I shrugged. It didn't really matter where I went so long as I was isolated and far from the reach of the major governments of the world. "Maybe South America. The Congo."  
  
"Again? I'd have thought you had enough of that place."  
  
"It would be good to see if things have changed since my last journey there. And you have to admit that it would be isolated."  
  
"Terribly so, I fear."  
  
"At least there will be people to talk to and fresh air to breath."  
  
"I'll set things in motion. As soon as you're well enough we'll get you on your way." Emery studied my drawn features and bandaged chest. "God, they really worked you over, didn't they."  
  
"Mr. Fair was a tad keen in his aggression. Wherever did they find that pair?"  
  
"Mr. Fair?"  
  
"Descriptive term actually. I didn't catch their names."  
  
"Ahh, you refer to Edward Lodge. The other one was Richard Griggs. Believe me, I didn't choose them."  
  
"Lodge was an odd fish. Had a real hatred. I'd watch him if I were you."  
  
Emery frowned. "I did a little digging into those two. Griggs is a mystery, but Lodge on the other hand knows you very well."  
  
I had a bad feeling. "From where?"  
  
"The mission that went sour last year. His younger brother was killed."  
  
My stomach started twisting. "Brother? I killed his ."  
  
"No," Emery said decisively. "The war killed him, John. Not you. That mission was a disaster from the start. It should have never been given the go ahead. If it weren't for you none of those lads would have made it home. You saved as many as you could. Lodge's brother just wasn't one of them. There's no shame in that."  
  
My hands rubbed at my face, desperate to remove the raw emotion that lay across it suddenly. Emery was right. This was war. It was filthy and gory, and it held no remorse for what despicable acts it perpetrated. Men died in war, in horrible twisted ways. I clung to that in an effort to hold my despair at bay.  
  
"How are you going to cover this all up? Lodge won't stay quiet."  
  
"Trust me, John. Lodge won't say a word. To him, you will have had a military trial and then sentenced to life imprisonment. Under the Official Secrets Act no one associated with this will be able to breath a word of it for a very long time."  
  
"And after the war?"  
  
"You come home. Parsifal will be retired. The War will be a distant memory and the King will dismiss the charges against you. You can take up where you left off."  
  
I raised an eyebrow at him. Nothing was ever that easy.  
  
"John, we've kept this under wraps despite what you think. The general public knows absolutely nothing. There is little chance of anything getting out. People like Lodge, hatred aside, are loyal to the crown and they will not endanger their career or their freedom by challenging the issue. The rest like the Tower guard will be sent to somewhere, say to Wales, where there will be no one to speak to save sheep. We have it under control." There was glint of humor in the man's eyes.  
  
Relaxing, I tried to grasp the fact that the nightmare was over, my ordeal at an end. So quickly, I thought. I expected far more and far worse. I mentally shook my head. Listen to me. What a miserable, despondent person I had become.  
  
"You're free to go by order of the King himself. Just take care not to be noticed as Lord John Roxton."  
  
I smiled. "A hard order, but if you chaps would help me slip out of England, I can do the rest."  
  
"It's a deal."  
  
***  
  
There was one last thing I had to do. Emery pleaded with me to reconsider but in the end he understood why it had to be done. No one, not even he, could be that cruel as to deny me this one favor.  
  
Roxton Manor was a tall majestic estate, stretching into the fog like a pale apparition. It had been a long time since I had been home. Between my time in Tibet and my involvement with the war, it left me little opportunity to return. My mother never complained though I could see in her gentle, green eyes the lament of a lonely matriarch governing a sprawling home that needed the raucous laughter of grandchildren, heirs that would one day cherish their heritage and carry on the Roxton name.  
  
Instead I ripped from her the possibility by killing one son and allowing the other to wander alone, convinced that no woman would be willing to take on as tortured a soul as my own. It would be easy to provide her with an heir, I supposed. Many women stood in line hoping for a chance to become a Roxton, but it would be a false heir in the fact that it was born not out of love but out of desperation. And neither my mother nor myself would want that. She understood that fact more than I ever dared hope. So she waited, watching me travel from desolate place to desolate place where the prospects were slim that I would find a woman eager to accept me, as broken as I was.  
  
Stealing across the well-manicured lawn, I let myself in through the rear French doors that opened to the small terrace. The darkness and the fog shrouded my approach and entrance. The house was still, no one was awake at this late hour.  
  
My greatcoat was damp from the heavy mist outside. I padded across the floor, careful to stick to the rugs and not the floors. Walking through the dark hallowed halls of my youth stirred in me a deep sense of melancholy. The great paintings of my forbearers stared down at me as I climbed the stairs. Their gazes seemingly filled with recrimination and reproach. I didn't meet any of their eyes, but continued my way upstairs.  
  
My old room was still as I left it, nothing had changed. It was practically a shrine. William's room was the same way. Mother had not had the heart or the will to redecorate it. She was content to live with the memories both rooms contained.  
  
I gathered what few things I wanted, just small things really. Nothing of necessity. Just mementos that I wanted along with me on my exile. They were just excuses, and Emery, bless him, had obliged me. He knew the real reason, I supposed, and he was still willing to play along. He felt he owed me for the sacrifice and torment I had endured.  
  
Leaving my room, I went down the long hall to another wing in the house and stopped before large, double wide oak doors, etched with deep intricate carvings of foliage and hunting animals, my father's mark. My hand lifted to the knob, intent upon opening it, but I paused halfway, hesitating.  
  
Now that the moment was upon me, I found I couldn't do it. I couldn't bear to see the sadness in my mother's face as I told her that I was abandoning her once more. I had left her after William's death, just when she had needed me most. She had never uttered a word to dissuade me, only accepted the fact that I needed to find some sort of peace over what happened, peace that would never have been mine in England, not then. And then came the war. Though mostly I was stationed here in the homeland, there were times I had disappeared without warning, leaving her alone in this large empty home. And now here I was about to leave her all over again. How many times could a son assure his mother he would return before she lost faith?  
  
I had the strength to face death for high treason but not the courage to face abandoning my own mother for the third time. My eyes closed and my head dropped forward, my hand sliding down the warm wood frame till it hung limp at my side. Forgive me, I begged her. Then I returned downstairs, ashamed. I was almost to the French doors when I heard a soft voice call out my name.  
  
"John?"  
  
I turned.  
  
Mother stood there in the arch of a door, dwarfed by the sheer height of it; it made her appear small, her dressing gown wrapped tight around to fight off the damp chill in the dark house. She held a finely detailed cup and saucer in one hand while the other held the wall. A broad spread around across her features as I faced her.  
  
"John! You're home!"  
  
The cup and saucer fumbled for a place on a nearby sideboard. Then she came forward quickly and embraced me. I gently planted a kiss on her forehead beneath her dark hair all bound in a long braid. For the first time I noted the strands of gray emerging there. It made what I had to do all the more painful.  
  
She stepped away to look up at me, her neck craning to do so. "Why didn't you send word you were coming? Mason would have readied your room."  
  
"Mother, my room is always ready." Never had she ceased hoping that I would just stop in on my hectic way from one duty to the next, whatever they might be. "What are you doing up so late?"  
  
"I was having trouble sleeping."  
  
"You shouldn't be getting tea on your own." I worried for her alone in this huge house. The dark stairs and cold empty rooms were sometimes treacherous to maneuver in the dead of night.  
  
"And who should I wake up from a sound sleep? Poor dear Mason? As a butler, he has more than enough to do and he doesn't need a silly fool like me waking him from his well-earned slumber. Not when I can do the job well enough myself." She patted my arm reassuringly. "Mrs. Higgins heard me below and helped me tend the kettle. We enjoy each other's company quite often after hours. She has trouble at night also. She claims honey in some chamomile tea is just the thing for a sleepless night, along with a bit of conversation."  
  
Her talk of warm homey evenings made my heart tighten, just another reminder of what I was leaving behind. I gathered her in an embrace, my arms holding her tightly, my head resting lightly on top of hers. We stood there for a few moments and somehow in that time she guessed something was amiss. She pulled back and regarded me quizzically.  
  
"You look thin, dear." Her light admonishing tone was music to my ears.  
  
"I'm fine, Mother," I reassured her, though as a mother she could see right through such a deception. "A tad tired, but nothing more."  
  
Her gaze traveled over me, as if trying to discern what it was that was different from the last time she had seen me. A mother shouldn't have to look at her son so. Her small hand lifted to touch my bare upper lip. "I'm glad you shaved it," she noted softly. "It made you look far too severe."  
  
A smile actually brushed my lips. I didn't have the heart to tell her that was the effect I wanted. An officer attached to MI5 should look imposing and daunting. But instead I told her, "And here I thought it made me look dashing." Her eyebrow rose in disbelief.  
  
Finally my humor faded. It was time to be honest with her. I tried to form the words to tell her the truth but it was hard. "I'm.I'm afraid I have to." My words trailed off into empty halls of silence.  
  
"You're leaving, aren't you?" There was such sadness in her tone, but it still didn't alter the regal bearing of her head or shoulders, held back and straight, as if she realized what this decision was costing me and didn't want to make it any more difficult She squeezed my arm. "It's all right, John. I understand."  
  
"You don't," I whispered. "I want to tell you..."  
  
"Tell me what, John? That you're a good son, a kind and generous soul that is forced away from home by circumstance and not design? This I know. You don't need to say more."  
  
I shook my head. I wanted her to understand. "You might hear things.people will talk."  
  
"And I never listen." Her own smile displaced the melancholy on her face as she stared up at me. "You above all others should know that. Gossip and hearsay hold no sway over me. I know who you really are inside." She tapped the spot over my heart.  
  
My large hand cupped her face and she leaned into it, her own hand lifting over mine to hold it there.  
  
"I don't deserve such loyalty," I said throatily with much remorse. My mother's faith and nobility broke my heart.  
  
"Rubbish, dear. You do what you must and that's the end of it. You're a Roxton after all."  
  
"I'll come back."  
  
"I know you will. I shall never doubt that." She stiffened her back and put on a brave face. "Take care and stay safe for me."  
  
"I will." I kissed her cheek with my eyes tightly closed. It took all my strength to step back.  
  
"Write to me if you're able." She stood rooted to the spot and stared after me, dark eyes glistening in the moonlight, but no tears fell across her cheeks.  
  
"I will," I muttered, turning away.  
  
"Always remember that I love you, John."  
  
I walked to the French doors of the veranda, my hands pausing on the twin latches. "And I love you, Mother." I pushed my way through roughly. Opening the doors allowed for the cool night air to rush in. I took one last glance over my shoulder at her, still standing near the arch of the door to the library. For the first time, she didn't look quite so small.  
  
I lifted a hand. "Goodbye."  
  
She shook her head fervently. "No, not goodbye. I'll see you soon."  
  
"Yes," I agreed, my voice unnaturally deep. "I'll see you soon."  
  
Then I was gone, flying down the steps of the veranda, jumping the parapet, greatcoat flying out behind me. The rain had begun again in earnest, but I didn't take notice of it. I was thankful for it washed away any tears that might have formed.  
  
I slipped into the seat beside Emery. He looked at me but didn't speak and for that I was grateful. He put the automobile in gear and drove down the main lane, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. We passed through the estate and I watched it slip away from me through the rain flecked glass, mile after mile. Finally, Mr. Robinson's tall headstone graced the far edge of the field and marked the end of the Roxton land. The car bounced onto the main road and then we were speeding off into the night.  
  
I was going to return home. I swore it. No matter where this flight from England might take me, I would find my way home. I always did. And sooner or later I would make it up to the people I had hurt, one way or the other. Visionaries like Professor George Challenger made me want to survive. There was a grand life waiting for me somewhere. I would find it someday. I would make my life count for something that could be shouted from the halls, not shuttered and whispered in dank corners.  
  
Someday I would be worthy to take my place as Lord Roxton.  
  
And for the first time in a long while that was a day to look forward to.  
  
  
  
The end 


End file.
